User blog:KateStrange/Meditations on Fire (Cinder Man Part 2)
~ In the morning I try to show no sign of my nightmare. It's nothing, just another fear hiding in the back of my mind, along with that old guilt from leaving my family over such a little thing. None of it will do any good right now. We have enough to worry about, looking for the Cinder Man. Still he eludes us. Around midday, we see a ball of fire tearing across the desert. It appears to be some kind of creature, but is unresponsive. We follow it to an oasis and discover to our surprise a meeting of genies, Djinn of Djinn included. I notice that although the genies of air, earth, and fire are represented here, water is missing. I wonder if the imbalance has anything to do with the dryness of the desert, and doubly so when Djinn mentions Rathbone's bound Marid. Alejandra asks about the Cinder Man, and Djinn suggests we gamble for the information. A set of cards is produced, simple rules explained. Two games: one of pure chance, and one in which the players tell stories with three cards. I watch the cards closely, noting Alejandra's surprise when Ballantino wagers his scarf. But that is brushed aside when we hear the truth about the Cinder Man. He is not a person, not any more, but simply an animating fire made of hatred and vengeance, a thing that feeds on anger and consumes those it kills. It has killed Vargas and Vargas belongs to it. Alejandra tries to wager for the knowledge of how to beat him, but Shaitan indicates that she wants to play a hand with me instead. I shrug. “I don't know what I have to wager with. Potions? Gemstones?” Djinn says, “She will want one of your memories.” “Will I still have the memory after giving it to her?” “No.” “Can I know which memory she'll take?” “No. But you can be sure it will be something precious.” Precious. Given my dream, my mind immediately goes to memories of family. Holding Creta as a newborn when I was only a tot myself. Sitting at my grandmother's knee as she tells stories of Weeping Woman. Or perhaps Shaitan wants something more recent. The early days in Willowdale, flirting with Sir Roswell as we helped Martha in the kitchen. My promise to Noemia. The night of Yule spent with Goshan. It doesn't matter. We need this information. “The stories, then.” Grandmother's fingerbone feels heavy in my bag. I draw my cards, one each from the beginning, middle, and end of the deck. The comet. The throne. The moon. And I know immediately the story that these cards tell. “An omen streaks across the sky, foretelling trials and danger. A hero arises to meet this threat and thereby comes to power. But this reign comes to an end as all mortal kingdoms must, waning like the moon until the cycle begins again.” “The story of the Prince,” Djinn says, and I know that I have won. Djinn explains how it is unwise to confront the flame of hatred with hatred in our own hearts. We must not feed it. Instead, we can fight with the contrary fire, that of the hearth, of comfort and fellowship and family. Djinn notes that although Vargas thinks that the power of the Cinder Man is a gift from the sun goddess, he is wrong on that point. We can look for him after dark if we wish; he only walks the desert at night. I am lost in thought and barely notice Alyenna's wager. This changes everything. If Vargas already has the power of the Cinder Man – or if it has him – then we have already failed to keep them apart. We cannot now avoid a confrontation with Vargas, but any such confrontation will be much more dangerous. Alejandra will make a tempting target for hatred when faced with her son's killer. (In one of the stone houses of Avenida, she flies into a rage.) I am to be honest not safe from that myself. For I have hated this man since before he had a face, since I knew that someone was responsible for Alejandra's private pain. Every bittersweet memory coaxed out of Noemia, slowly at first and then more freely, every shred of loss and longing called out for a reckoning. No, I cannot face this enemy as the man he used to be. He is a problem to be solved now, a riddle of fire. Efreet storms off, having lost to Alyenna. Djinn puts away the cards and gathers us around for a bit of merriment and dancing. I can't put our news aside, and excuse myself after what I think is a polite interval. Alejandra looks happy. Maybe it's the desert air, a reminder of home. I always feel more peaceful in grasslands and fields. Fire. I take its shape, letting the heat of my life ignite my flesh, cover me. I burn. Pause, sift through the sensations of this form. It is not the clean burn of a true elemental, but close enough to feel alongside the physical warmth an unsatisfiable hunger. Slowly, I move through the forms of fire that Wutog and I created for Noemia as part of her meditations. Darting, reaching, grasping. I try to pin down the nature of fire, to separate it out, to feel. Orcs do not see fire in quite the same way that humans do. This is because while they also use fire to prepare food, to warm their houses, to fight their enemies, they do not need it to see at night. Fire is not used to hold back the darkness, not to reveal enemies in the shadows. It is used to let the enemies know that we are here and not afraid of them. The cooked food, the warm lodge are luxuries enjoyed only by those brave enough to announce their presence, to burn any who come to challenge them. And then, in the midst of battle, it is the fire in the veins that lets orcs fight on when weaker races would collapse under their wounds. This I know from the orcs I have met, and from those of my family who have spent time among the orcs. My family itself has developed a still different perspective. We don't challenge our enemies. Rather than alert dangerous creatures to our presence, we have often chosen to fogo a campfire. Many a night we have spent in the wilderness with no heat but that of our bodies, packed together in the wagons, cooking in the daytime and hiding the smoke or else not cooking at all. Fire when we had it was a celebration, where we could gather around without fear of what would see. Or else there were the cremation fires that took our loved ones and gave us back tokens to carry. But still I felt the fire in my veins at the Battle of Willowdale, when wounded by the First's frost. Still I felt that burning, not so different from the burning of my elemental flesh now, demanding that I rise up and destroy. Courage, anger, joy, hatred. It consumes; what remains in the ash? When we meet the Cinder Man, Alejandra speaks to him as a person, demands an explanation for his actions. I speak to him as a riddle. If your power comes from the sun, why do you hide from it, why do you walk only at night? (The sun outshines the fire, the sun outburns it.) I don't think he likes that. (The fire does not know doubt, only hunger.) The sword pierces my vitals, the wound cauterizes in the heat. Let's see how deep the fire burns. The flesh starts to smoke, but the fire isn't out, the flames spring back, and they are angry. I am pleased despite myself. I bet that hurt, bastard. As Cinders shifts his stance, Valconey appears on the battlefield and whisks us back to Willowdale. It is only back in his study that I realize I've been impaled, and only then when Alejandra heals it. There was a time when I would heal myself, and a time before that when injuries were wrapped in a poultice and carried for days. Valconey has analyzed the First's wrappings taken from his body on the Golden Fields. The fabric, he says, dates to before the Wall. He seems to think this is significant, as if we didn't see ancient relics and magics and enemies almost every time we travelled outside. “You have to understand,” he says, “I was a simple village wizard mixing potions for cows before you all got here and changed the landscape.” “And I was a simple bonesetter. None of us expected this, and we didn't change the landscape.” He's talking about buildings, the land itself is the same, the land is strong. “What about the giant stone circle out there?” All right, so we did open a font of magical energy. “And the giant hospital down the road?” “That one wasn't me.” But he's right. We're changing things whether we want to or not. Perhaps not the land itself, mostly, but the creatures on it. There are no more ankheg in the Golden Fields. But neither do the dead walk the Lonesome Road. In balance, it's better, safer. Except for the powerful enemies, who never bothered Willowdale before we came. The hobgoblins, who we saw and didn't stop until they marched upon the gates. Seven hundred dead. I find Noemia sleeping at the steps to the Boar & Thistle. She is leaning against Zuni's side. Zuni looks at me with both pride and reproach: you abandoned me here, but I still did what you asked. See how peacefully she sleeps? I scratch Zuni behind the frill, tell her that she's done well. Then I gather Noemia – precious redstone girl – and carry her to bed. Leão hardly seems to notice as I tuck her in. Alejandra is having a bit of a party to celebrate the beginning of turning into living stone. I find her in a quiet moment, tell her that if she needs to train her feelings towards Vargas, I am here and I want to help in any way I can. She thanks me, then says, “But you are not my family.” I wonder if this is her way of telling me to back off, but the tone is a bit too kind for that. “If I were any more involved with your family my tusks would fall off,” I say, before realizing that the offhand comment could have two meanings. I'd intended 'We may not be blood relations, but I've got plenty of reasons to care.' But to an orc it could also mean 'Your family is making me weak.' To an orc, it might be true. Love is weakness. Alejandra doesn't seem to notice the latter, but she picks up on the tusks comment more generally. “Your heritage has given you a great gift. And mine, now, has given me a gift.” So she is reflecting on how this development relates to her ties to the Empire of Decadence. I forget sometimes that as a foundling, having a history is new to her. I tell her that the blood has its own memory, even if we do not remember. I try to make sure she is feeling all right before I excuse myself. She has had so many surprises in these past two days. I do not return to my own bed. First I brew myself a tea to dull the ache of a vital wound healed too fast, and wrap a protective bandage around the soft new skin. Then I approach Goshan's room. He wakes at the slightest knock, a light sleeper after years outside the Wall. I don't want to be alone tonight. He lets me in. As I curl up under Goshan's quilt, wrapped in his scent, I realize that I will have to confront the Cinder Man again, and not only for Alejandra's sake. He burns armies. I can't fireproof Willowdale. Category:Blog posts Category:Blog posts Category:Blog posts Category:Reflection